


Burned It up in Cold Regard

by Jackdaw816



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Dark, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Episode: s02e13 Exit Wounds, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 00:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30080361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackdaw816/pseuds/Jackdaw816
Summary: He had nothing left, and he couldn't bring himself to care
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7
Collections: Torchwood Fan Fests: Music Fest 2021





	Burned It up in Cold Regard

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I'm sorry. Please heed the tags.
> 
> Title and fic inspired by [Earthbound by the Accidentals](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fRP4TquLg-U) but it did get a fair bit darker than the actual vibes of the song

The kiss was bloody. These days, most of them were. After leaving Earth, John had found himself aimless and aching. His grand gesture of goodwill toward Jack had (almost literally) blown up in his face. He’d destroyed any chance of being redeemed in Jack’s eyes, any chance of winning him back over. 

(Part of him, a sick little part he didn’t acknowledge, reminded him that Jack was far from his Javic anyway. The man he loved had died long ago. There was  _ nothing _ he could do.)

So he’d run. He hated running, but he was damn good at it. He’d run away from home, from the Agency, and now he ran as far away as he could from that little mudball of an ancestral planet Jack had claimed as his own.

The future was familiar, almost comforting. John knew it like the back of his hand, and he knew exactly which cracks he needed to fall into to get what he needed. There was always work to find if your standards were low enough and John was caring less and less about keeping to his already dubious personal code.

Larceny. Arson. Kidnapping. Murder. He was a jack-of-all-trades, although the phrase sat uncomfortably on his tongue. Most of the remaining Time Agents had gone feral like him, but he quickly built a reputation as the best. As long as he was paid, he didn’t ask questions. He was a tool, and people didn’t like a tool that thought for itself.

He settled into a rhythm terrifyingly quickly. Take a job, do it well, get paid, then wash the blood off his hands and his conscious with as much hypervodka as it took. In between, fight and fuck to his heart’s content. Everyone wanted a piece of the Captain, and he was happy to oblige.

It was a good life. Who cared if he woke up screaming more nights than not? Who cared if he ached from a dozen cuts he could see and a dozen cuts he couldn’t? Who cared if he had to force the jokes? If his smile never reached his eyes? If those eyes were dull and gray as flint? He wanted for nothing. It was a good life.

A bite brought him back to focus. Right. This man, almost a boy, had come with a job for him. John didn’t remember what it was now. His mind was fuzzy, either from the alcohol or the warm weight straddling him. He kissed back almost passively, going through the ever-familiar motions.

Something felt off. But when had it ever felt right? So John simply ignored the tension coiled in his gut and focused on the tension building elsewhere. 

He tried to move, to take control of the play. But he felt sluggish, tired. More than could be accounted for by the drink. The drink that this man atop him had provided. The drink only he had tasted.

He tried to buck his now-attacker off, but he was held fast. His hands were free, but he hadn’t the strength to put them to any use. Low laughter from above him and a rutting of hips that made it clear exactly what his intention was. Even worse, John couldn’t muster the will to care.

The drug never stole his consciousness. A blessing or a curse. When it was done, he was left alone, draped over his bed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. It was paralysis, not unlike the kind he used himself. Now all he could do was wait and see if it would kill him as well. He dared it to. It might hurt less.

But he still lived. Sensation crept back in slowly. He rolled onto his side and retched, feeling the foul poison leave him. But not entirely. More scars to add to the list, more things to never tell a soul. He’d been lucky. He’d been shown mercy.

Once he could feel his legs again, he stood, wobbling like a baby deer. He carefully made his way to the bathroom, his body protesting every step. He just needed to-

His foot caught in the doorway, flinging him onto the cold tile of the bathroom floor. Pain burned through his face, yet he didn’t react. Didn’t scream, didn’t cry. He just laid there, revulsion roiling under a thick layer of apathy. 

He was nothing like he used to be. He used to be weak. He used to care. Now he had no heart for the feelings to reach. He was strong. He was the hunter, the predator. He was firmly in control of his own life, his own destiny.

Then why had he let himself be taken over? And why was just the thought holding him immobile? His breath came faster until it was unmistakably sobbing. No tears. That bastard did not deserve his tears.

Minutes passed. John pulled himself off the floor. Turned on the shower and stepped in still clothed. The fabric clung to his skin as he turned his face to the spray. He’d had a relapse. A moment of weakness. But no one knew. And no one would. He was good at keeping secrets. And this one would likely die with him.

Soaked to the bone, he stepped back out and stepped up to the mirror. A man he didn’t recognize stared back at him. A drowned rat with bruises blossoming up his neck and absolutely nothing behind the eyes. It frightened him far more than he’d like to admit. 

He didn’t realize that he’d punched the mirror until he looked at his bloody knuckles and noticed the glass sparkling back at him from the wound. It didn’t even hurt. The mirror itself was broken into large jagged shards, most still in the frame, some scattered over the counter.

John picked a shard up. Maybe five inches, perfectly sharp and already bloody. If he was wise, he’d turn it on himself, take out a menace to society. After all, the damage he’d done was permanent. He couldn’t take any of it back, no matter how much he may want to. He’d gone too far.

He stood there, shard in his trembling hand. He had a choice to make. And the universe, that bitch, didn’t seem keen on letting him slip away again. He dropped to his knees, ignoring the sting of the glass through his sodden jeans, and raised the shard to his throat. He knew exactly where to press, and how hard he’d need to in order to finish the job. Blood welled up under his touch, but then-

A chime. It almost startled him, but he’d had enough practice not to let his hand slip. He tried to refocus, but the mood was broken. He dropped the shard, feeling a drop of something trickle down his neck. Coward, he thought, getting back to his feet. Couldn’t live right, couldn’t die right.

And he had the chime to blame. The very familiar beep from his vortex manipulator. A message from the bane of his bloody life. And maybe the only person who could save it. John didn’t even bother to read the message before erasing it. He was done with that self-absorbed git. No. If he was going to be fixed, he’d do it himself. 

"If" being the key word. He wasn’t even certain he needed to be fixed. All he really needed to do was hunt down that fool who’d taken something of his without permission. He’d set off the whole thing, and John was certain it’d all go back to normal once he repaid the favor. And if not, well. He’d burn that bridge when he came to it.


End file.
